Pain

On some days I struggle,

To gulp down the pain,

Like a baby swallowing its liquid food.

But my poetry keeps calm,

Feeds me with fascinating stories, 

Of love in the air which vanishes with every breeze,

But manages to find new.

I spit out more and gulp down less. 

I write pain in a paper 

For my mind to know its syntax.

So that I can feel pain -

More in paper and less in my throat.

On some days I struggle 

To weave words together.

Like a sewing needle, 

Whose hole is blocked?

I am left with empty paper and unstitched fabric.

I see my cognizance of having 

Cold wars with my emotions.

Leaving me in the middle of nowhere. 

I searched my Self in pain -

And found me in the trashes of pain.

I know pain has found me to settle;

I have found them to write poetry!